


Have Faith

by softmoth



Series: Thy Faith Fail Not [1]
Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Gen, M/M, preslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 08:36:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8243084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softmoth/pseuds/softmoth
Summary: "You have no stake in Zion... but you are more involved in its fate than you can possibly imagine. Caesar is influencing the White Legs, and he has deemed the slaughter of my people as their rite of passage into the Legion. You yourself have witnessed the White Legs' brutality. You understand why they must be eradicated. I cannot offer you a mark, but I can offer you an... 'olive branch' of my own."





	

**Author's Note:**

> Another kinkmeme fill with my dumb M!Courier. Acts as a precursor to [Thy Faith Fail Not](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8242907), but it's not really important to read this before that. Apologizes for any weird formatting issues, copy and pasted directly from the former fill and probably typo-ridden.

 It was Joshua Graham's firm believe that the arrival of the courier was nothing less than a sign from God.  
  
Conflict still lingered dangerously on Zion's borders, threatening to rise and consume with gnashing teeth and tearing claws.  
  
Joshua knew that the White's Leg's uprising was imminent. Strengthened by their Storm Drums and their militant ferocity, they were steadily pushing forward- looting, raiding. All the while marching to the bloodthirsty beat set by their brazen leader in his macabre helmet of feathers and bone: Salt-Upon-Wounds.  
  
They were growing fiercer, bolder. But more importantly, they were growing restless.  
  
Joshua knew that the conflict was unavoidable. The time had come, and the Lord's work must be done.  
  
It had been no coincidence that the courier had arrived when he did, stumbling into Angel Cave covered in dirt and blood, stinking of battle and death.  
  
"You are a courier?" Joshua addresses the man, pausing his diligent scrutiny of the .45 automatic pistols piled high on his workbench, each one gleaming, inspected, approved- ready for use. He racks the slide on the gun in his hands, very aware of the way it chinks noisily in the cavernous room. Intimidating.  
  
He sees the courier swallow, slowly taking in his bandaged hands and face. "Um, yeah, I mean, yes," the courier fumbles, looking frazzled and wide eyed beneath the wide brim of a cowboy hat pulled low on his face. There is a crusty red smear on his cheek, just beneath his left eye, and he picks at it nervously. Joshua suspects it is dried blood.  
  
There is a black cord strung around the courier's neck, ending in a circular pendant hanging loosely against the chest of his leather armor. The pendant is silver and cracked, like a pre-war coin, and it glimmers in the cave's torchlight. Joshua can barely make out the imprint of a bull stamped on its front.  
  
"You are also Legion," he states, and his fingers tighten against the pistol.  
  
The courier looks up sharply. "Wha..? No, I... oh! You mean this?" He hooks a thumb around the cord on his neck, fingering the pendant.  
  
"Caesar's mark," Joshua confirms coldly. He continues inspecting the pistol in his hands. He does not look up from his bench, does not show fear. Caesar had sent his assassins several times before. None had made it out of the valley alive.  
  
This one would be no exception.

"No! I mean, it's not like that," the courier says. "Caesar gave this to me, yeah, but I don't wear it 'cause I'm Legion. I wear it so his Legionaries don't blow my damn head off."  
  
Joshua hears the courier chuckle, a husky burst of laughter that is strangely fascinating in its implied familiarity. As if they were merely friends, sharing an old joke.  
  
The courier continues. "It's like a peace offering, sorta.... an olive branch, I guess."  
  
An olive branch. Joshua relaxes his shoulders. He had not even realized they were tensed.  
  
"I see... Interesting. Like the brand offered to Noah from the foot of a dove."  
  
The courier laughs again, louder. Strangely delighted. "Hey, yeah! Wow. It's been ages since I've heard that story. Noah and his boat, all filled up with animals."  
  
"Yes. Protecting the Lord's animals as the earth was cleansed with His flood." Joshua looks up, studying the courier. "What is your name?"  
  
The courier tips his hat good-naturedly. "Name's Simon. I'm- er, I _was_ with the Happy Trails Caravan, but-"  
  
"Simon," Joshua echoes, and the name is heavy on his tongue.  
  
Simon.  
  
Simon Peter of Galilee, who appeared unto Joseph Smith himself. The Rock of Revelation.  
  
It was no coincidence.  
  
"Tell me," Joshua asks. "Were your parents of faith?"  
  
"Eh? Um, yeah, I s'pose they were," Simon fidgets as he talks, and Joshua realizes that despite his casual demeanor, the courier is still quite uneasy. "I mean, I guess they were catholic, I think that's how my Ma named me anyway, but, look, about my caravan-"  
  
Hm. A Gentile. "You are catholic as well?" Joshua presses, just to be sure, and he is surprisingly amused at the way Simon's cheeks flush pink in agitation.  
  
"I don't know! I mean, yeah, sure, I guess so. Look, I'm from the Mojave. People spend a little bit more time livin' than prayin', you know?"  
  
Joshua turns away from his workbench entirely, shifting in his chair. The gun is still in his hands and he fiddles with it idly, ejecting the magazine and peering at the rounds inside, before fixing the courier with a stare.  
  
"Without prayer," he states frankly, "I would not be alive today." He clicks the magazine shut and cocks his head. "But I suspect you did not come here to discuss the finer points of benediction... Simon. Am I correct?"  
  
The courier meets his stare directly, and Joshua can see the hint of fear in his nervous brown eyes.  
  
"You've met with Caesar," Joshua guesses. "You know who I am."  
  
He does not miss the way Simon's gaze flickers down briefly to his hands- his blackened finger tips curled around the pistol- and back up to the charred skin of his own eyes. The only visible part of his face beneath tattered strips of bandages. He cannot deny that the look of reverent recognition, the briefest flicker of abject _terror_ , stirs something dark and ugly deep within his chest. Something wholly unholy.  
  
"Why are you here, Simon?" he asks.

"My caravan is dead," Simon says. "Ambushed, by...tribals, or somethin'. They're all dead. I had to fight them off, and I, uh. I killed most them. The ones that didn't run." The last words are quieter, trailing off, and Joshua thinks Simon might suspect he did something wrong. "Follows-Chalk took me here."  
  
Joshua turns back to his pile of guns, abruptly breaking their eye contact.  
  
"I see. Tell me, Simon," he asks, "do you consider yourself a man of the Lord?"  
  
Simon does not answer, so Joshua continues. "Because I do... and I am. I have done unforgivable things, but I believe the Lord grants us second chances. I have been baptized twice- once in water, once in flame. Every beat of my heart, every breath that I take, is a gift from God. A second chance, bestowed by His mercy."  
  
He pauses, choosing his next words carefully.  
  
"And I intend to thoroughly make use of his gift."  
  
He studies the gun in his hands, not inspecting, but reflecting. The .45 automatic pistol. The weapon of his tribe. The physical manifestation of what they have learned, what he has taught them- and what he must do now.  
  
"You've arrived at Zion during a most tumultuous time. The White Legs- the same tribals who attacked your caravan- are readying to wage war on the Dead Horses. My people. Good people."  
  
He raises the weapon and holds it at arm's length, closing one eye and peering down the sight, aiming at nothing in particular. "You have no obligation to us, or to Zion. But the Lord works in mysterious ways, and I do not believe the nature of your arrival here was an accident. Unfortunate, certainly. But no accident."  
  
He hears Simon scoff. "You think _God_ sent me here? Sent me to, what... help you fight a war?" Joshua notes the barely contained incredulity in the courier's voice.  
  
He opens his eye again and lowers the weapon. "No. Not a war. A purging." He cocks the hammer on the pistol and engages the safety with his thumb, ensuring it is fully locked before rising up from his desk.  
  
He walks purposefully to where Simon stands, near the mouth of the cave. "A purging of the sin and evil that threatens to consume the innocent souls here."  
  
Simon crosses his arms as Joshua approaches, eyeing the other man's weapon warily, but there is a half-grin lingering about his shadowed features.  
  
"Ain't no such thing as an innocent soul," Simon quips. "We're all born with sin, and we all die with it too."  
  
Joshua frowns deeply, though he knows his expression is undetectable beneath the bandages wrapping around his face.  
  
"That is where you and I differ, Simon. I do not believe in original sin. You might not either, if you knew the inhabitants of Zion as I do. I believe that sin is an abomination of man, brought about by greed, and lust, and corruption. The people here are not like you or I. They are pure. Untainted. And I intend to do everything within my power to keep them that way. "  
  
Joshua flips the pistol in his hand, grabbing it by the muzzle and holding it out towards the courier.  
  
"You have no stake in Zion... but you are more involved in its fate than you can possibly imagine. Caesar is influencing the White Legs, and he has deemed the slaughter of my people as their rite of passage into the Legion. You yourself have witnessed the White Legs' brutality. You understand why they must be eradicated. I cannot offer you a mark, but I can offer you an... 'olive branch' of my own."

Simon looks at the offered pistol hesitantly before reaching up and grasping it by the grip. Joshua allows Simon to take the weapon, watching as he trails his fingers curiously along the lettering etched into the barrel.  
  
"It is Greek," Joshua explains when he notices the courier's furrowed eyebrows. " 'And the light shineth in darkness, and the darkness comprehended it not'."  
  
Simon looks up at Joshua with a strange expression, and Joshua feels his heart swell in nervous hope.  
  
Hope. Now that was something quite unfamiliar.  
  
"You are obviously very valuable to Caesar. And yet you assure me you are not a part of his Legion..."  
  
Joshua does not look at Simon's face, instead watching the way the courier fingers the gun, admiring it.  
  
"...there is something more that you are seeking, and I suspect I can help you. But first, we must help Zion."  
  
Simon finally speaks. "And how do I know you're not lyin' to me?"  
  
"I suppose," Joshua responds, and his voice is a low rumble, "that you will simply have to have faith."  
  
Simon looks to the gun, then to Joshua, then back at the gun. He studies the inscribed message as though debating with himself, and Joshua watches the internal battle play across Simon's features with rapt fascination.  
  
Finally, to his surprise, the courier reaches up with his free hand and crosses himself- tapping his forehead, then chest, then shoulder to shoulder.  
  
"Alright," Simon says, holstering the pistol at his side. "But for the record, I'm _really_ hopin' you're an honest man. I've got more blood on my hands than any guy's got a right to have."  
  
Joshua feels the hope burst in his chest, spreading like liquid warmth through his veins, and it takes him a moment to remember that this is what relief feels like.  
  
"Believe me," he responds dryly. "I understand. Not a day goes by where I am not haunted by the terrible things that I have done." The words make his skin tingle and ache. Sore. As if his burns were raw and open, and not merely a woven mass of tissue and scars.  
  
He turns to leave the cave, and waves a hand to indicate Simon should follow. There is much work to be done.  
  
Simon follows without hesitation, meeting Joshua's brisk stride. "You've really embraced the whole 'Divine Retribution' thing, haven't ya?" he jokes.  
  
Joshua turns to look at him, and the courier's face is open and friendly, all smiling eyes and a lopsided grin.  
  
"Perhaps," Joshua responds as they exit the cave together. He raises a cupped hand to his face in order to shield his vision from the blindingly bright sun. The early morning heat is humid and thick, and Joshua feels his bandages scratch uncomfortably against his skin. He knows eventually they will begin to itch and irritate with sweat.  
  
"I don't enjoy killing," he says, squinting against the sun's harsh rays. "But when done righteously it's just a chore. Like any other."  
  
Simon stiffens. "There's nothin' righteous about shooting down your fellow man." His voice is clipped. Angry.  
  
Clearly, Joshua had hit a nerve. But he does not pry, does not try to determine what provoked such a strong reaction.  
  
After all. Everyone has their own cross to bear.  
  
And now, perhaps, with the added hands of Simon the courier, Joshua will finally be able to lift his cross.  
  
God willing, he will save Zion. He will protect what is right. And his enemies, the White Legs, Salt-Upon-Wounds... they will suffer like he suffered. They will die in fear, in terror, and in pain.  
  
A fire will be kindled with his wrath, and the burned man has every intention of razing them all to the ground with it.

 

**Author's Note:**

> ([tumblr](http://soft-moth.tumblr.com/) for messages/prompts/friends ♥)


End file.
